


Hearts Less Darkened (a secret santa prompt fill)

by FolleDeJoie



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asshole Geraldus, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, graphic depictions of the sea i guess, i took the prompt and ran i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FolleDeJoie/pseuds/FolleDeJoie
Summary: o	Canonverse: Ciaran is saved + alive and well at the end (so is the Mute)(with a blink and you'll miss ito	Cottagecore Diarmute - just domestic farming + cottage life kind of stuff? - canonverse or AU, go wild)For lovely EnduringParadox, merry christmas ya filthy animal xx hope you enjoy
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14
Collections: Diarmute Secret Santa 2020





	Hearts Less Darkened (a secret santa prompt fill)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnduringParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/gifts).



After the chaos and the bloodshed were over, Diarmuid had barely taken the time to breathe before voicing his plan to their remaining group.

“These are not our people!” Geraldus had shouted, disbelief and consternation warring in his tone when Diarmuid had first voiced his idea.

“ _Your_ people” Rua corrected, leaning heavily on his staff and Cathal’s supportive arm. “They’re not _your_ people! You’re the foreigner in our ranks, these people are of our blood.”

“And look at how much they’ve spilled!” The Cistercian gestured wildly at the remains of both Norman and Irishman alike, some still steaming in the cool approach of night. “Look at how they treat their brothers!”

Diarmuid couldn’t fight the urge to run his tongue over his loose molar, the tang of iron still lingering in his mouth from the hit he’d received.

“You have lost all your reasoning if you really believe these _savages_ will allow us to waltz into their nest and live.” He spat, pushing past the young man and towards the corpse of the fallen Norman leader of their group.

“We are hunted either way,” Diarmuid spoke patiently, as if to a child. He looked over at his Brothers with an awful kind of hope in his eyes. “We must at least try, as Ciaran would do for any one of us.”

“Diarmuid…” Cathal began gently, brows furrowed in sadness as he adjusted his grip on Rua’s waist. “For all we know he could already be dead, and what then? They will not hand over the rock if we have nothing to bargain with.”

“Leave that to me,” Diarmuid stated firmly. The Mute’s head shot up in alarm from the other side of the clearing where he’d been untying one of the fallen soldier’s water gourds. The novice looked over and caught the older man’s startled gaze, allowing a shaky smile that brought very little comfort. His smile dropped quickly as he looked back over at Geraldus, kneeling beside the highest ranking knight and performing the last rites. There was something sharp in the edge of his mouth as Diarmuid repeated his own fateful words.

“All I’m asking for is a little faith.”

It was sheer folly that led them towards the mouth of the camp. Grief and the myriad of gory images he’d been forced to behold had left him with an almost warped sense of reasoning, but Diarmuid knew that the path they were taking held true.

He knew that no matter how many relics or how many Saints he touched in his life, it would never wash away the sickly guilt at leaving his mentor in his time of need. Geraldus voiced his outrage and dismay long after they’d found the cart tracks leading deeper into the darkening forest, and it was only the threat of capture that had stilled his tongue.

They stopped short when they finally caught the scent of campfire and the muted sounds of men laughing. Diarmuid’s heart pounded in his chest despite his calm exterior, although his hands shook as he gestured for Cathal to hand him his satchel. 

“Wait for me here” He whispered, slinging the leather over his shoulder. Rua rolled his eyes in disbelief and tried to straighten his gait in Cathal’s grip.

“You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m letting you go in there alone.” He said, words still slightly slurred from the blow to the head he’d received. The mute made a low sound of agreement, grip tightening on his sword as he moved to stand beside the novice.

To others, the heavy set of his brow and the clenching of fists spoke of unrelenting fury.

To Diarmuid, the desperate pull at his thinned lips and the hunching of his shoulders spoke of unfurling fear.

His heart ached with something unspoken as he gazed up at his friend. His hand was steady as he cupped the side of his neck, fingers curling gently at the curls around his ear and the nape of his neck. The mute shivered imperceptibly as he brought a rough hand up to curly gently around his pale wrist, his eyes beseeching as he shook his head at whatever Diarmuid was planning.

“Mo chara…” Diarmuid spoke softly, “You will let me do this.”

He brokered no debate, and the Mute glowered as his grip tightened. He shook his head as if freeing the cobwebs and stabbed the sword into the dirt without hesitation. His large hand splayed over Diarmuid’s sternum for a moment before he mirrored the position on his own chest. He nodded over in the direction of the camp without breaking their gaze. Diarmuid frowned and had the start of an argument on his tongue before Rua exhaled roughly and cursed under his breath.

“Let the man go with you, for God’s sake” he whispered harshly, poking Diarmuid’s shin with the end of his wooden staff. “Don’t be a fool, Diarmuid. Not now.”

The novice scowled at the older Brother only briefly before refocussing on the Mute, glancing between his soft imploring eyes and the firm grip on his wrist. He nodded defeatedly, pulling his hand back as the Mute let him go without question.

“Stay low, and stay behind me…” he whispered with only a hint of a quiver in his voice. The Mute nodded, grasping the hilt of his sword and ripping it free from the earth in one smooth motion. Diarmuid turned to his Brothers one last time.

“We’ll meet at the plúirín sneachta clearing we passed on the way. If we aren’t with you by the moon’s zenith, do not come looking for us.”

“We won’t.” Geraldus muttered darkly, eyes narrowed in scorn at the absurdity of the situation they’d stumbled into.

Rua threw him a glare but nodded at Diarmuid and the Mute, tightening his grip on his staff and around Cathal’s steady shoulders. With a final nod, they turned and went their separate ways.

“ _You stupid boy_ …!” Ciaran gasped wetly as the three of them stumbled in the dark. His arms were wrapped around both their shoulders as they shared the weight of the injured man, trying not to make too much noise in the undergrowth as they hurried from the camp. Diarmuid could barely believe the divine luck they’d been handed: Ciaran, wrist tied and thrown into an empty tent on the edge of the campsite, far enough away from the rowdy native’s to not draw attention when they cut their way in.

Even half-conscious and badly beaten, Ciaran’s embrace upon seeing the young man had been unyielding. He had protested despite his exhaustion, scolding and reprimanding them both in harsh whispers as they carefully dragged him through the hole and shuffled as quietly as possible into the forest.

“You should have left me behind.” He mumbled and Diarmuid’s iron grip tightened on the older man.

“ _Never_ ” Diarmuid hissed, shoulders shaking as he burrowed his face into his mentor’s neck, pressing his forehead to the older man’s temple. “I couldn't.”

Ciaran’s chest hitched and he pushed his head firmer against his boy’s, turning to press a brief kiss to his tangled and greasy curls.

“Where are the others? Are they…?” He broke off, voice cracking under his emotion. Diarmuid shushed him gently, shifting the weight on his shoulder and glancing briefly at the Mute who seemed unfazed by the almost dead weight of their elder.

“They’re well, Brother. Waiting for us in a clearing near the cart, not far now…”

Leaves bristled underfoot as Ciaran’s stumbling feet came to an abrupt stop, a harsh gasp spilling from his broken lips. Diarmuid and the mute looked over at the same time, worry and concern colouring their thoughts before they caught sight of the almost harrowingly resigned expression the older man wore.

“Oh my boy…” He spoke, a glimmer of hope in his tone. “Our prayers may yet have been heard…”

“Pitiez! Pitiez! Sauve-nous, mon frére…!”

The Cistercian’s eyes were wild and glazed in fear as he begged and pleaded in his mother tongue, clawing at the Mute’s shoulders even as the lay brother continued to push at the boat alongside the others.

“Dieu, il vous avait banni sur ce terre Maudite!” Geraldus pressed on, terror gnawing at his words and marring his features as he glanced between the Normans’ steadily making their way down the hillside and the immovable man in his hands. “Celle-ci sera votre redemption mon frere! Pitiez…”

The mute glanced over at Diarmuid. There was something pained and considering in his eyes, an inner conflict that Diarmuid could read so well after all these years and that had terror sharper than the freezing waves seizing the younger man’s chest.

“Don’t…” Diarmuid mumbled, barely audible above his hitching breath and the waves, but the Mute’s brows furrowed all the same. Diarmuid didn’t know what was being asked but even in a foreign tongue he knew the sound of desperation. Geraldus looked over at him and something contorted his features hatefully, spiteful and cunning as he began gesturing at him wildly.

“S’ils nous attrape, ils vont le ruiné!” Geraldus shouted, and the Mute’s head shot up to finally look at the foreigner. Sensing the nerve he’d pinched, Geraldus nodded frantically and caught himself once again on the Mute’s shoulder as he tried not to trip under his water-logged robes.

“Je l’ai déjà vu, et vous aussi ! Vous savez de quoi ils sont capables, ils ne vont jamais nous laissez vivre après ce qu’on a vu," He continued, and the Mute’s fist jerked up to clutch at the Brother’s collar.

"Ca suffit! Taisez-vous Geraldus!" Ciaran shouted back over the crashing of the waves against the boat and the rapid thundering of all their hearts. Diarmuid blinked the salt water out of his eyes, frustration and fear pinching at his gut.

“What are you _saying_?!” He called over the boatman’s calls to keep on pushing. “What do you want from him?!”

“C’est la verité et vous le connaissez bien! Il ne connaîtrait jamais la paix !"

“ _Be quiet_!” Diarmuid shouted, pushing at the boat with renewed fury. “Leave him _be_!”

“Still your cursed tongue, boy! You brought their ire upon our heels! It’s your touch on the rock that has doomed us a-”

Whatever ground he had made with the Mute seemed to evaporate into thin air with every syllable spoken. The broader man let go of the boat long enough to pull the Cistercian up by his collar with both his hands, nostrils flaring in barely suppressed rage. The holy man had the audacity to look shocked, gasping as his own hands scrabbled fruitlessly at the stronger man’s wrists. He held him long enough for the boat to start making headway in the waves without them, their herculean task receding as the waters finally caved to their wants.

“On n’a pas la place, tu le sais très bien mon frère. Ils vont nous attrapés et ils vont nous punir, mais toi… toi tu peux les ralentir… tu seras un martyr mon frère, pour le salut de Dieu… »

They were almost chest deep now, the tide turning in their favour and the boatman called them to jump in before it toppled. Ciaran began hoisting the man up from his perch on board before turning his hand to Diarmuid, who could only look on in despair as he gripped the wooden side. The soldiers were finally gathering on the beach behind them, close enough to make out the bows and the shimmer of steel in the overcast sunlight.

“Diarmuid!” Ciaran snapped, gripping onto Diarmuid’s arm in an attempt to haul him up. Diarmuid shook his head frantically, eyes wide as he watched the frightening sign of understanding and surrender on his protector’s face.

“Stop it!” Diarmuid yelled, voice breaking in exhaustion and fury as he tried to break through whatever poison Geraldus was spewing. He choked on a mouthful of seawater, the stone in his satchel matching the weight of his heart. “Get away from him!”

Diarmuid flinched suddenly as an arrow whistled through the air and clunked into the stern of the boat.

“ **níos tapúla**!” The boatman yelled furiously, and Cathal grunted as his oar slapped through the waves. “ **gabh isteach**!” He motioned at Diarmuid quickly to jump aboard.

Diarmuid watched Geraldus plead once more, hissing something in his own tongue that had the Mute rearing back. They were far enough away that Diarmuid could barely make it out, but he heard the cut-off yell when the Mute’s fist struck the holy man’s cheek. He watched on as the Mute pushed the man beneath the waves, the Cistercian’s arms scrabbling for support as he broke free with a gasp only to be plunged under once more.

Another arrow whistled by, this time sinking itself dangerously close to where Cathal was frantically rowing. The men were yelling in exertion and panic, forcing themselves onwards despite the looming threat behind them. Ciaran kept pulling at Diarmuid despite his exhausted and injured state, harshly pleading with him to get on board.

Diarmuid’s teeth clacked together as he watched the Mute drag the foreigner above the choppy waves for the final time, watching the harsh jerking of his chest as he coughed the water from his lungs. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but he saw the way the mute threw him to the side, seeing the man stumble and trip in the waves as the tide brought him closer to the shore and the judgement that awaited him there.

Relief flooded the young man as the Mute finally turned towards the boat, but it died as quickly as it lived. Instead of wading towards them, the man merely stood still and watched as they floated further into the ocean.

Bone-deep sorrow, the kind that he had only heard of in folktales and poems on dark nights. It didn’t light a candle to the broken cry of despair that filled his every fiber and tore at his throat as he watched his heart stumble forward into the surf, the shafts on two arrows peeking from each shoulder.

The decision was made in a heartbeat.

He wouldn’t leave him alone.

He couldn’t.

His Brother’s frantic yelling of his name was an afterthought as he propelled himself off the side of the boat, pushing himself towards the Mute with unsteady movements. He spat out the salty brine that he swallowed as the waves threatened to pull him under, but it only spurred him onwards. His head went under briefly and when he surfaced with a gasp it was to see the Mute as he staggered desperately towards him, eyes wide in panic. His heart clenched with wonder and sorrow as he heard his own name torn from the throat of the man sworn to silence.

His heavy robes and the rock around his neck pulled him under once again before he could catch his breath.

The current swept him outwards, the rock dragging him into the heart of the sea. He clawed towards the light, air bubbles reflecting and obscuring his blurring vision. The acrid taste of brine choked him as his struggles grew weaker and weaker, his strength slipping through his fingers as he descended into the rapidly freezing depths.

As the darkness drew and the breath left his lungs, he mourned the sight of brown eyes. Strong hands reaching out.

And comforting,

blissful,

Silence.

Diarmuid gasped sharply awake, body tensing and lungs tightening in half-remembered agony. For a moment he believed himself to be still beneath the waves, oppressive darkness permeating his surroundings as his eyes adjusted from their slumber. He licked his dry lips on instinct and flinched at the salt he tasted there, brine and debris and the all-consuming pressure of the depths as he struggled upwards and-

He clenched his eyes shut, taking one deep, long inhale. He savoured the air, the expanding of his lungs. He exhaled shakily and ran his fingers over the soft sheets underneath him. The sensation of softened wool anchored him to the ground, steering his thoughts away from the cold and the wet and the beach.

He took another breath, steadier this time, and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the small line of dawn seeping from locked shutters of the room.

The bed dipped slightly to his left and his heart clenched in relief as he heard a soft snore from the mass beside him. He slowly turned his head and sighed at the comforting sight of dark curls and broad shoulders that rose and fell steadily in peaceful slumber.

The young man shifted slowly onto his side so that he could face the tattooed back fully, careful not to disturb the man he shared his bed with. His hand stretched out before his mind could catch up, and he glided his fingertips featherlight over where he knew a starburst scar remained on his shoulder.

He’d traced the newest scar and its twin many times over, often enough to have every dip and colour memorised. They were sill pink, stark against the other pale lines that littered the mans’ body, and their existence would always be bittersweet.

They’d been tested and they’d triumphed. They’d sacrificed so much, but they’d survived.

He’d survived.

The man shivered lightly under his delicate touch, and Diarmuid felt the tell-tale sting of tears threatening to burst through once more.

His chin quivered and he bit his lip, overwhelmed with his lingering memories and nightmares.

Without thinking he shifted closer, sliding into the dip left by the sleeping man and carefully wrapped his free arm around his wide chest. His fingers twirled in the coarse hair he found there and he buried his face at the nape of his neck. He breathed in the deeply comforting scent of earth and livestock and musk that was so uniquely his own. He tucked his knees behind his thighs until they were pressed as close as they could physically be, and the older man finally started stirring from his own slumber.

A large hand came to lay over his own, gently stroking the back of his hand and slotting their fingers together rhythmically. Like the waves lapping at the shore.

Diarmuid buried his small smile into the tanned skin and pressed a small kiss there. The other hand trapped under his own body came up to briefly wipe away the few stray tears, and he sniffed as lightly as he can. He knew he hadn’t succeeded as he felt the man tense up beneath his fingers, but Diarmuid shushed him gently before he could move.

“Don’t, David…” He whispered thickly, pressing another lingering kiss to the delicate skin at the top of his spine. “It’s alright. I’m alright.”

The sheets shifted below them as the older man nodded, slotting their fingers together over his heart and keeping them firmly tied together.

“Nightmare?” He grumbled, voice husky and raw with sleep and his lifetime of screaming. It still had Diarmuid’s heart fluttering in his chest with every word spoken, no matter how brief or blunt. That he finally got to have this, after years of wishing and praying to whoever would be listening…

“No…” Diarmuid whispered, rubbing his cheek across the warm skin comfortingly. He shifted closer, as if that could even be possible. “Memories.”

The older man exhaled roughly, Diarmuid’s arm dipping with the chest beneath it. After only a moment David gently pulled joined hands upwards, and the young man’s eyelashes fluttered shut at the feeling of those warm lips pressing into the centre of his palm. The older man’s beard tickled at the sensitive skin of his fingertips, and Diarmuid couldn’t hold back the satisfied sigh as David pressed small, lingering kisses to each of the pads.

“You’re here,” the vibrations of his voice rumbled through his fingers, soothing and kind. “Just memories.”

Diarmuid sniffed again and nodded, rubbing his forehead slowly over the scars made in another lifetime.

The lay like that for some time, unhurried in their gestures of love and care. Diarmuid held on to his saviour and pressed kiss after kiss as if that would heal the wounds that they couldn’t see.

As the light of dawn began to spread and illuminate their small shared bedroom, Diarmuid knew it would almost be time to get up and start feeding their animals. The sheep and the chickens had already started their morning chorus, bleats and cheeps steadily climbing as the last vestiges of sleep slipped from the earth.

Ciaran would be up soon, was probably already starting to make their breakfast oats. Cathal would be next, Rua last as he indulged in the Sabbath and all that that entailed.

As if reading his thoughts, the mute shifted slightly to lift his head, glancing over at the younger man over his shoulder. Diarmuid loved him, and his unkempt bed hair, and the small lines from the pillow that lingered on his face.

“Up?” He asked, an eyebrow quirking as if he knew the answer. Diarmuid giggled and shifted onto his elbow, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his lips. He pulled back after a long moment, eyes half-lidded and grin forming as the mute pressed forward again almost instantly, insatiable and yearning.

Diarmuid unravelled their fingers and brought his hand up to brush the dark, wayward curls from his heart’s eyes.

“Not yet…” he whispered against his lips, blooming at the answering smile he felt beneath his own.

**Author's Note:**

> FRENCH TRANSLATION (rough)  
> Have mercy – Save us, brother
> 
> God banished you to this cursed place – this will be you redemption, Brother
> 
> If they catch us then he’ll be ruined – You’ve seen it and so have I! You know what they’re capable of, they’ll never let us live after wht we’re witnessed
> 
> Enough, be quiet Geraldus!
> 
> It’s the truth and you know it! He will never know peace!
> 
> There’s not enough room and you know it – they’ll catch us and punish us, but you… you can slow them down… you’ll become a martyr, Brother – for the grace of God…


End file.
